Blur
by Charis M
Summary: “It’s not supposed to be like this ...” In the moment, he doesn't much care. Vague Hand of God spoilers.


**Blur**  
by Charis

_Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica and all associated characters belong to people who are not me. I'm just borrowing._

_Notes: For Pen, who many many ages ago asked for Kara, Lee, a desk, and some porn. I tried, and I think in the future, I will continue to leave this to others. (Can I go back to writing Adama and Roslin now?)_

It's not supposed to be like this, drunk as much on victory as nectar, but her skin is sticky-sweet under his mouth and she's making little mewling sounds as he kisses her neck, nothing like what he expected from the so-untouchable Kara Thrace. He fumbles at her jacket all the same, wanting more, and she does not protest - gives him nothing but encouragement, her fingers digging into his shoulders and her hips tight against his.

He manages to undo the clasps on her uniform, a damned mess of buttons and snaps and hooks he's never hated quite so much before now, and pushes impatiently at the fabric. She laughs and shrugs out of it; the sound echoes in the office, vibrant even in the glowing haze he's temporarily living in, and he laughs too, until she lunges in and silences him with her mouth. Lee staggers back, bumping into something flat and solid, but the pain is less than an afterthought with her tongue in his mouth and her hands busy now on _his_ clothes. The flight suit opens more readily, quick-release catches parting at her sharp tug. He turns his head, hisses, "That's not fair!" before biting down. She bucks against him, retaliates by shoving her hands into the loose material to grab his ass.

"Frak fair, Lee," she growls. "Life _isn't_."

It's not, any more than he's supposed to be doing this. The thought is a moment's distraction, a moment in which she pushes the flight suit down even further. He shudders at the touch of her hands, takes revenge by inelegantly yanking up the thin cotton of her shirts. Her skin is hot under his hands, which seems funny when it feels like he's on fire all over; he leans up to taste her, collarbone and shoulder and the unexpected softness between her breasts. It is her turn to tremble now, to whimperwhine as his hands map her.

He remembers - flash of incongruity - her knee; lifts her, hands on her hips, his leg sliding between hers in the process, and sets her on the edge of the desk, heedless of the reports and flight training manuals that are strewn across it. She looks at him for a moment, and he thinks she's going to say something to break this off, but she just grins that devil-may-care grin of hers and tugs at his flight suit.

"Strip."

"Who's the CAG here?" he retorts, trying to recover some of his balance.

She makes a face at him, "You are, sir." It's mocking, but if he's at all surprised it's that she can do that right now, if her body's in any state close to his. "Now strip, _sir_."

He doesn't - he's in charge, right? Instead, he goes for the waistband of her pants; her hands meet his, but not to impede, and their fingers tangle together as they work at the fastenings, buttons and zipper, and her mouth is on his again, hard and fierce and bruising. It doesn't matter that they're in the little cubbyhole that passes for his office, that someone could walk in on them at any moment, that paper stains - just get naked, or naked enough, and he pulls her pants down as far as he can (they catch on the knee brace, and he curses uncoordinated pilots and their inconvenient injuries) while she squirms to get her other leg out - flight suit pushed low, forgotten as they meet. He tries to go slow - he's been taught to be a gentleman, after all - but she's having none of that, and when her hips surge up and her good leg wraps around him, heel digging into the small of his back like her teeth in his shoulder nails in his back scent all around him, he abandons all pretence of gentleness or decorum or anything else except losing himself in her.

"Kara -" he grits out, but he can't even think in words anymore, and the rest of the thought vanishes as she shifts under him and pulls him deeper, and it is his turn now to be reduced to incoherent sounds low in his throat. And -

.- he's not supposed to do this, but -

.- deeper, harder, faster, and she's meeting him, and he has to be quiet because anyone might come by -

He bites his lip; the pain doesn't help his already fractured control, and he's sure he's hurting her now, but he doesn't care, and she surely doesn't either, not if the fact that she's meeting him at every surge and retreat is any indication, not from the way her head is thrown back and her eyes are squeezed shut and her body is shaking with every ragged breath. The tendons on her neck stand out in sharp relief, and he tastes them in turn before scraping his teeth across them -

.- and pushing her over, and maybe it's the taste of her or the feel of her spasming around him or just all of this building and building and suddenly becoming too frakking much, but he muffles a sharp gasp of what might be her name or simply empty air against her collarbone as everything goes taut and limp all at once.

Eyes closed, sweat-sodden and panting, he rests his weight against her and on shaky arms that barely find purchase on the desk. The ink from some memo is smudging under one hand, and he's sure it was something important, but he can't make himself care right now, too worn out. All of the energy from the adrenaline rush of the flight and his victory has been spent, and he wants to crawl into his bunk and sleep for a week.

"Ka -"

She gives him a syllable, but she's already finding her shirts where they landed on the desk and pulling them back on, and her name dies along with the last traces of her breath in his mouth as he exhales.

"Nothing happened," he says instead, verbalising what he sees in her eyes.

"No," she agrees.

He turns away as she gets dressed, picking up the memo. The majority of it is now a smeared palmprint, but he picks out words, a cataloguing of the fuel left them and an estimate of flight hours available based on patterns and activity. Turns out it wasn't important after all.

He lets her leave first.

_- finis -_


End file.
